Roots

by farrahdomid

It was more of a statement than a question. He knew, and I knew he knew.

We lied there quietly, fear and smoke amidst the air. Words and thoughts we’d never allow to breathe hung from the ceiling by a little thread, and here we were just…existing.

“It’s hard to tell with you threatening my life.”

Moments earlier, he extinguished a cigarette on my thigh and watched as I silently endured the pain. He pinned me down and said that if I moved, he’d make it worse. I believed him. Over the years, we’ve isolated ourselves. No one understands why we’re together or what we’re doing exactly, but I don’t owe anyone an explanation. I might owe myself one, but I don’t ask questions I don’t want the answer to.

So we remain together in this whirlwind of a lifestyle. We remain in the darkness, and this oasis of destruction that we’ve created somehow brings me peace. I don’t care to go for walks in the park, I don’t need flowers. He doesn’t require a hot meal be prepared in his absence, nor does he need me to be a doting partner hanging onto his every word. We just are. He just is, I just am, and it works.

It feels like I’m blindfolded on a rollercoaster every single day of my waking life.

It feels like my old life was kidnapped. Somehow, it feels like I’ve been tossed in an unnamed van, taken to an unknown location just to have a man named Pablo stick a needle in my arm as nameless, faceless men riddle in and out of me.

Except, he isn’t Pablo. And nothing that has happened to me occurred against my will.

His name is Louis, but everyone calls him Trig. They call me Micky. We’ve gotten into a lot of weird shit together, but the most toxic thing we’ve ever been involved in happens to be each other. In the span of three years, he’s managed to completely purge me of a soul. Looking into the mirror always leaves me feeling ghastly and afraid because staring back at me seems to be an empty carcass. Then he appears, putting both fear and amazement in me, shadowing any light that could come near.

With my gun against his temple, I assessed our lives together. I’ve been tempted to rob him of his next breath on multiple occasions, but I’m afraid of how much I’ll miss him. I’m afraid of what would happen to me.

As we lied there in bed together, I thought about the empty bottles littering the floor, random debris strewn about. I thought about how I ended up here, and what I’d miss if I didn’t have this anymore.

I closed my eyes and removed the gun from his temple, then placed it on mine. I could feel his hands on my body. For a cold-hearted, soulless man, his hands were always warm and inviting. They touched me in the right places with the gentlest caress. His hands told me everything I needed to know about how he felt about me. They handed me his heart on rusty platter and expressed the things he would never say. Holding the gun to myself, I thought of how much I’d miss his hands.

I could feel him begin to fondle my breasts, circling my nipple with his fingers anticipating their inevitable hardening. My heart raced, blood pumping through my veins with a fierce intensity, warning me of oncoming tears. Louis squeezed my waist, and into my ear, he said,

“Do it.”

“Don’t ask for something you don’t really want.”

“If it makes you happy, it makes me happy.”

We sat in silence. I cursed his name, then he cursed mine. After a few moments, he licked the side of my face like he was a dog and I, his master. He continued to lick me, slobbering on my face and ear, watching me and waiting for a reaction.

I racked the slide, flipped the safety off and put my finger on the trigger, then he stopped. I could feel the goose bumps rising on his chest. As he opened his mouth to speak, I put the gun back on the side of his head. I pushed it deeper and deeper into him, daring him to even breathe the wrong way.

“I hate you,” I spat.

“Prove it,” he said.

Love is the best thing we can experience as humans. It’s complicated, but so addicting in the most beautiful way. It’s tantalizing. You can’t explain why you keep going back to the one thing that has the power to kill you, you just do. Love is life. Just to have the ability to feel it, no matter how painful, is a joy all in itself. To love him is painful. To wake up and be this person is heartbreaking. I wish every day that I could make him feel the knife sliding up and down my veins, slicing my skin on its journey. To feel the utmost hatred for someone, yet be so enamored by their being is confusing and catastrophic, but I endure this feeling day in and day out because my life without him is bland and ordinary.

So I shot him in the leg.

“Do you feel my love for you now, baby?”

I silently watched him endure the pain, threatening to make it worse if he moved.